


A Wandering Mind

by Macs_Baby_Girl



Series: RPF Oneshot Series [1]
Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Could be considered underage depending on where you're from, F/M, NSFW, No Plot, Porn Without Plot, at all, whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macs_Baby_Girl/pseuds/Macs_Baby_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a dream I had when I fell into a bored stupor at college. Will be part of a series of oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wandering Mind

**Author's Note:**

> First oneshot in my series of unrelated RPF oneshots.

Title: A Wandering Mind  
Category: Misc » Misc. Tv Shows  
Author: Missus MacManus  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M  
Genre: Romance/Fantasy  
Published: 08-09-14, Updated: 08-09-14  
Chapters: 1, Words: 1,919  
Chapter 1: Chapter 1  
A WANDERING MIND

This sort of happened. Based on a dream I was lucky enough to have when I fell asleep at college.

"I rest my hands under my chin; the drone of the lecturer sends me into a stupor. I can feel my mind wandering, stepping into better, more pleasing places..."

WILL BE A CHAPTER 2

The press pass around my neck feels akin to a golden ticket from a childhood novel. My hair, conservatively re-dyed a natural chestnut, shows a few errant streaks of pink, a residue from my wilder days. Huh. Not like those days are too far behind me, yet, since accepting this job, I have done everything in my power to keep it.

Including the re-dye and cut of my hair. I push an errant strand out of my eyes and sigh heavily. The flashes of cameras are starting to bother me. We've been at this for a while, and it's not even midday.

"I'm gonna get some air," I tell my camera guy, "try not to be a parasite."

I step out of the crowded convention centre. Cons like this are always crowded, and they're about as unpleasant for us as they are for the stars who show up. Official press work at events this major always stresses me out. This is the biggest con I've ever been assigned to.

I lean against one of the walls, reach into my ratty messenger bag, pull out a pack of cigarettes. I'm about to light one when a rough, deep voice says;

"Y'know those things will kill ya?"

Holy hell. I nearly drop the cigarette when I realise who is talking to me; Michael Rooker.

"So will the crowds in there if I don't get out the way," I smirk, nodding at my press pass.

He's dressed very inconspicuously in a button down shirt and jeans, sunglasses shading his eyes.

"Aw, you poor tortured soul," his tone is sarcastic but he's smiling; I can tell he's joking. I smile.

"How you holdin' up in there?" I ask, casually flicking ash from my cigarette. He steps closer to me, removing his sunglasses.

"Nuh-uh-uh, not hiding any recording devices, are ya?"

I gesture surrender.

"I'm off duty," I'm not trying to be flirtatious, it just keeps happening. To my surprise, however, he winks at me.

"Well, then," he smirks, "I'd be happy to talk to ya. C'mon. Here ain't exactly the place, darlin'."

"Where do you suggest?" I'm kind of confused. I'm young, only twenty-one, and not exactly supermodel material. The idea that he might be flirting with me is a strange concept. Perhaps I just have shitty perception of myself. Or maybe I actually am decent looking. Either way, when he holds out a hand to me, I take it, let him lead me round the building to the parking lot.

"Ever ridden a motorcycle before?" He grins at me.

I shake my head. I keep wanting to get my bike license, but it never quite comes into being. His grin widens.

"You better hold tight then."

It's a strange feeling, to be sitting behind a man I've admittedly spent time thinking about, my arms - almost frail, delicate, scarred - locked around him. The motorcycle roars to life and I get the sensation that I'm flying.

We drive to a bar - one of several that the hotel he's staying at has to offer; small, stained glass windows, a pretty girl behind the counter.

"Little early for drinking, don't you think?" I ask, smirking.

The corners of his lips twitch into a smile.

"Don't be a killjoy."

Four shots later, I'm starting to REALLY appreciate his muscles. He's rolled up his sleeves and I can't help but stare a little. Fuck, he really did get in shape for his character in The Walking Dead. I try to avoid conspicuous gawking: he's almost forty years older than me for gods sake. But damn, is he sexy. My mind wanders; just how strong is he, exactly? Is he just as good a lover as rumour says?

Not going to lie; I've thought about him before, in plenty of ways. Most of which are inappropriate. I never thought I'd be sitting next to him in a bar though.

I down a fifth shot, shiver at the warmth it sends through my body.

"I'm s'posed to be working," I say, "I'm so buzzed though..."

He slings an arm around my shoulders.

"Me too, darlin'," his lips brush my ear, "think you could give me a hand gettin' to my room? I'm gonna hang there for a while before I go back. Don't wanna make an ass of myself," he winks.

A sure sign that I am buzzed is the lack of filter between thought and spoken word. The words fall from my treacherous lips before I can stop them.

"Want some company?"

I've never been this forward in my life, but something about him makes me brave.

It's not until we're safely away from prying eyes in an elevator, my body enfolded in his arms, that he asks the inevitable question.

"Just how old are ya, exactly, darlin'?"

"Twenty one..." I say meekly. He runs a hand through his short hair.

"Christ," he mutters, "I know I look good, but damn, girl."

I smirk.

"It doesn't bother me," I say, biting my lip, "but if it bothers you-"

Before I can finish my sentence, his mouth firmly locks with mine. His breath tastes like whiskey, tequila, and something else. He pushes me up against the elevator wall, pins my hands above my head with one hand; the other roams my body, settles on cupping my breast.

I moan against his mouth as he shoves his knee in between my thighs. He laughs and pulls away from my lips.

"If this is getting you so het up..." He trails off, his unfinished sentence a promise of delicious, deviant things to come.

I am weak in the knees, and it's not just from the alcohol. As such, I am incredibly grateful that he keeps an arm wrapped firmly around my waist as we exit the elevator and walk along the hallway. He lets go of me for a moment to unlock the door to his room. I lean against the wall, peeking at him through my lashes.

I can't believe this is actually happening. He grabs my hand and pulls me through the door and into his arms.

There's a couch a few metres away; somehow I don't see us making it to the bedroom. He kisses up my neck, along my jaw, to my lips. I wrap my thin, scarred arms around his neck, stand on my tiptoes and lean into his kiss.

His hands wander; down my body to the hem of my shirt. Without breaking the kiss, he pulls my shirt up; we have to break our kiss for a moment and he casts my shirt aside. He sees the scars predominantly on my right arm, all the way up to just below the tattoo on my forearm.

My breath halts for a moment; what will he think?

His actions surprise me.

He carefully brings my arm to his lips, kisses the worst of the scars.

"Not again," he says, and I think it's a request.

"I haven't in ages."

"Good." He kisses the scar again before returning his lips to mine. One hand goes behind my back, unhooks my bra. It falls to the floor, exposing my upper body to him entirely.

I unbutton his shirt. He casts it aside and I carefully trace his muscles with tentative fingers. His other hand, the one that isn't on my back, reaches between us, cups my breasts.

"So beautiful, baby." He breathes into my ear before he kisses my neck again. Oh god. Those words from his lips make my brain cloudy with lust.

His pants, my skirt, and our shoes join our shirts on the floor as we tumble onto the couch, lips locked in a deep, lustful kiss.

"Michael," I go to say, unsure whether it's the start of something coherent or whether I just want to hear his name fall from my lips.

"Is this okay, baby?" His voice rasps in my ear as one of his hands slips down the front of my panties, a long finger circling my clit.

"Mm," I whimper, "please..."

"Please what?"

"Touch me. Fuck me." The words fall from my lips before I can filter them.

"Dirty little lady, aren't you?" He smirks, slips two fingers inside me, stroking at first then moving in and out. I reach between us, touch his manhood. He's big, bigger than any other man I've known this way, but that only makes me wetter. Combined with the small groans that tear from his lips courtesy of my ministrations, I am frenzied.

"Michael," I whimper, "please, I want you..."

"What do you want me to do, baby?" A teasing smirk graces his features, blue eyes twinkling and conveying deep lust. Maintaining eye contact, his lips lower to my breast; he sucks on my nipple. I cry out.

"I want you to fuck me." I say.

"Ah-ah, ask nicely." He's enjoying teasing me.

"Please," I start, "please, Mr Rooker, I want - no, I NEED - you to fuck me."

My begging works. He removes his fingers from me, slowly licks them clean; another amazingly sexy tease.

"Mm," he growls into my ear, "your pussy is so sweet."

I wrap one of my legs around his waist, writhe beneath him when I feel the tip of his cock on my wet pussy.

"You want my cock, baby girl?"

"Yes!" I rock my hips upwards, trying to convey my need.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Mr Rooker, I want your cock, I need you to fuck me!"

He thrusts into me, a groan escaping his lips.

"I love when you call me that." He growls as my body stretches to adjust to his size. He's so big, it almost hurts, but the slight pain soon passes.

"Are you okay, baby girl?" Our foreheads touch as he almost tenderly asks the question.

I nod, whimper in pleasure when he starts to move inside of me.

His large, strong hands grip my waist, settling just above my hips as I start to match his thrusts pace-for-pace.

"Mm," he growls, "so tight..."

The room is silent but for the sounds of our moans and the soft sound of skin on skin.

I wrap my other leg around his waist, pulling him deeper inside me; we moan and growl filthy words into each other's ears until I can feel my climax beginning to pool at my core, spreading through my body like lava.

Without warning, he rolls us so I'm on top of him.

"Go on, baby girl," he groans into my ear, "ride me, fuck me 'til you cum."

I moan, begin to move my hips, ride his impressive length until the pool that has spread through my entire body explodes; I moan wantonly, my entire body shaking as I cry out his name.

"Fuck... Oh... Ohhhhh... Fuuuuuuckkk, Michael... Ohhhh!"

He laughs, his grip on my hips tightening slightly.

"Fuck, baby girl, you're good," he groans, a deep moan tearing from his throat as he thrusts a little deeper, a little harder. His eyes roll back in his head and I feel him cum deep inside me.

"Fuck." He groans, pulling my trembling frame down against his chest; we both breathe heavily.


End file.
